Sunday, 19 October 2014

The sound of music in Lush Places

We slipped out of the hallway, Martha the dog and me, edging past baskets of logs, boxes of things for a village event, a dog crate and musical instruments.

We were heading for Bluebell Hill, which was shrouded in mist.

A crow sat on a fence post and coughed rather theatrically as we walked past.

'Ahem,' it said. 'You're up bright and early.'

Back home, Mr Grigg was rustling up a cooked breakfast for our guest, talented Canadian singer songwriter Ian Sherwood, who spent the night with us after a gig in Lush Places, part of a tour of south west England.

He rocked our village hall. Like a male Joni Mitchell, his many-layered songs dipped and dived, entertained and got us all joining in.

This man is going places.

Today, he's heading for Dartmoor. The sun's shining, it's squelchy underfoot but the sky is a beautiful pale blue.

It's been a busy old weekend. A grandchild's fourth birthday, Harvest Festival, the church smelling of apples and chrysanthemums, tinned and packet food piled up in the children's area, ready to take to the food bank in the next town, a sad indictment of how tough times can really be for some people.

And then the harvest supper, with entertainment by a young woman with the most beautiful voice but nervous as anything, and so ably supported by music producer and 'coach' Eddie Adamberry at her side.

And then a comic turn by Adge and Madge, a couple of local yokels with a rather limited Wurzels repertoire which, nevertheless, got the audience singing along.

Although when Adge and Madge left the stage - for it was me and Mr Grigg, dressed up in a mob cap and gurt big hat - there was a glare of doom from a professional musician in the audience. How could we? How dare we?

Life is too short not to have fun. And, in my book, it doesn't pay to take yourself too seriously.